Chapter 4: Unraveling the thread

I woke up feeling like crap—not physically. My body had almost fully healed after the chaos at the auction house. But my mind? Scrambled eggs. I’d tried to piece everything together last night before sleep pulled me under, but instead of answers, I got steamrolled by exhaustion. And now I felt like I hadn’t rested at all.

I rolled out of bed and dropped into some calisthenics to jolt myself back into gear: a hundred squats, a hundred pushups, a few pull-ups on the rings hanging from the ceiling. The rhythm helped. A little.

Then I darted to the bathroom—before Sophie could get in and claim it for the next hour.

Afterward, I sank into the couch in our shared room. Just sat there, waiting for the world to pull me into something—anything—I could have even a sliver of control over.

It was Peter who came out of his room, already dressed—he must have woken up ridiculously early, even for him. He looked flabbergasted and excited at the same time.

Oh, right. Zoe. I wondered how that went.

“You okay, Lex?” he asked, concerned as ever.

Of course he did. Let’s lie to speed this up.

“Sure, never better.”

He bought it, I think. Or maybe he was just too eager to share whatever was bubbling in his chest.

“Okay. Lex, I gotta tell you something.”

Don’t be such a tease, Peter. Spill it.

“Go ahead. Don’t make me wait.”

“It’s kind of funny, but... I have a girlfriend now.”

Yes! A score.

“You see?” I said, grinning. “Told you. Hell, even Jason told you—you gotta put yourself out there to get hit by something good once in a while.”

He smiled and sat opposite to me, beaming like a kid at Christmas. Just like when we were small and got that one present a year. Nothing we ever really wanted—but it was ours. Something to claim. Something that felt like hope.

“Tell me how it went.”

“Well, first of all... I have a girlfriend, but I kind of don’t know her name.”

What?

“I know you might know it,” he added quickly, “but keep it to yourself, okay?”

What? Is my brain still scrambled? Am I dreaming?

“Keep it to myself? Why?”

“She avoided telling me her name. Like it was on fire or something. I think I’m supposed to earn it.”

“Pete… I’m going to be honest—I don’t understand what’s going on. Is it the girl you left with?”

“Yes. The one with the crazy cool blue eyes and the warmest smile on the planet.”

Oh boy. You're so out of your depth, Peter. What did you do to him, Zoe?

“Peter, you gotta make some sense. Please.”

“He won’t,” Sophie said, emerging from the bathroom with her towel turban and morning sass.

“I already talked to him about it,” she added, walking to the kitchen. “I saw bits of it myself yesterday.”

Maybe she’d explain this with more logic than love-struck Pete.

“They were walking and talking all evening,” Sophie continued. “Then she got all excited and kissed him.”

No way.

“She kissed you?” I asked.

He blushed like a little boy.

“Yeah. She did. We’d been talking for like an hour. She said she liked that I was honest, that I wasn’t pretending to be anything I’m not. Then at one point she asked if I found her attractive.”

He glanced at Sophie, then at me.

Sophie perched on a stool and listened in, smirking.

“Of course I said she was,” Peter continued. “Then she just grabbed my face and kissed me. Out of nowhere. And I swear, it was a great kiss.”

“What happened next?”

“Next is kind of a blur,” he admitted. “She told me I’m her boyfriend now—unless I didn’t want to be.”

“You obviously didn’t mind, huh?” Sophie teased.

“No, not at all. But I told her it was weird not even knowing her name. We mostly talked about me, too.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

“Not by my choice, Soph!” Peter protested. “Every time I asked about her, she just dodged it with some clever line. She didn’t even tell me her name after all that.”

“Did she at least give you her number?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grinned. “Had a lot of sevens in it, so I call her Lucky Seven in my head for now.”

What a funny boy. Sophie actually laughed.

“So what are you going to do now, big boy?” Sophie asked, drying her hair with a towel.

“That’s the thing,” Peter said, rubbing his neck. “She told me to call her when I’m ready. Ask her out. But... I don’t know where to take her, or when. Or if I should call now or later. I don’t know anything. I feel like I’m tryharding—and she said she liked me for who I was. So is trying hard... pretending?”

Oh damn, Peter. That got philosophical real quick.

“Peter,” Sophie began, “trying hard to impress someone isn’t the same as pretending to be someone else.”

“Is it not? What if 99% of the time I just get by, and for her I use that last 1% to do something more? Isn’t that fake too? She’d only know that 1%, and it would get tiring real fast.”

That actually gave Sophie pause. He made a good point.

Peter sighed and stared at the ceiling.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

“Dunno. I want to call her. Just to hear her again.”

“Then call her,” I said. “If that’s what you want, then that’s who you are. You said she liked that.”

“But I don’t know where to take her. I’m not good at this.”

“Tell her that,” I said.

“See how it goes,” Sophie added with a shrug.

“She might get annoyed.”

“Didn’t bother her when you kicked the whole thing off by asking her to publicly embarrass you in front of her friends,” I said. “I really doubt honesty’s gonna scare her off now.”

Peter sighed again, leaning back on his hands, eyes narrowing.

“Okay... but what if she doesn’t know what to do with me either? What if it falls apart before it even starts?”

Sophie laughed, then sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Then maybe it wasn’t meant to last.”

Peter stared at the floor. “Okay... so when should I call her?”

“Peter, I swear,” Sophie said, exasperated, “you’re eight years behind the rest of humanity. Just act when it feels right. Say what you mean. So? When do you want to call her?”

“I don’t know... now? What time is it? Will I wake her? Is that bad or... maybe good?”

“It is, dear brother,” I said with a little mock drama, checking my phone, “7:47 AM. Which just so happens to be the sacred time of day reserved for doing whatever the hell you feel like. Got it?”

“Alright,” Peter muttered, pulling out his phone. “Wish me luck, girls—and please, keep quiet while I make a complete fool of myself.”

Sophie gave him a solemn nod, returning to her kitchen stool with a zipped lip and wide eyes. Peter held the phone to his ear, heartbeat thudding—and then frowned.

“She’s not picking up. That’s... probably bad, right?”

Before either of us could go into full “wisdom storm,” his phone buzzed.

Lucky7 calling.

Her name lit up the screen like a beacon from the universe: Not all hope is lost, idiot.

Peter glanced at me, then at Sophie—whose expression screamed: Pick. It. Up. Or I’ll throttle you.

He swallowed and answered.

“Hey… did I wake you?”

“Oh? And would you want to wake me up, Mister Peter?” Her voice came through the line, smooth and amused, and definitely loud enough for us to hear.

“The truth is… I really just wanted to spend more time with you. I couldn’t wait to hear your voice again.”

Oh damn, Peter. I always wanted to hear him like this—completely enamored.

“So you don’t care if I got any sleep. Good to know,” she said playfully.

“I’m already losing points,” Peter said. “Also, I have no idea where to take you.”

Zoe laughed—warm, effortless.

“Perfect. That’s exactly what I was hoping for. So, when do you want to meet?”

“Whenever it works for you.”

“So… I get to choose the place and the time? Peter, I can already tell this is going to be the best date I’ve ever been on.” She paused, then added, “Just don’t be late.”

Click. The call ended.

Peter sat frozen, staring at the phone like it had just grown legs.

“I think she ended it with me. Didn’t she?”

“Honestly,” Sophie said, “maybe. But she also sounds like the perfect girl for you. Let’s hope—”

Buzz.

Peter’s phone lit up. A text.

We swarmed him like vultures.

Lucky7: It was nice hearing your voice. I couldn’t wait either. Let’s meet at the park, by the entrance to the amphitheater, 2 PM. —Zoe.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

I was happy for him—really—but also a little jealous. Maybe it was time I gave this “romance” thing a shot.

“Girls!” Peter cried, eyes wide. “I got her name!” He leapt to his feet, fist in the air like a cartoon hero. We both laughed, dodging his flailing arms.

“Yeah, you also have a date,” Sophie said, standing to finally go get dressed. She paused at her door. “You better tell her you live with two beautiful girls before she finds out herself.”

Then she disappeared—leaving the bomb behind.

“Is that bad?” he asked me.

“Depends on how secure she is. But yeah—Sophie’s right. Mention it casually. Maybe… skip the whole ‘beautiful’ part. I’m glad it’s working out for you, Pete.”

Of course, my moment of normal-life fun couldn’t last.

My phone buzzed.

Philippe Penrose.

I excused myself from Peter and slipped into my room, shutting the door behind me before I picked up.

“Hello, Mr. Penrose.”

“Alexandra,” he said, voice calm but taut, “I’ve got unexpected news.”

My stomach tightened. “What is it, sir?”

“I need to confirm something first,” he said slowly. “Was Ms. Honey killed inside the restaurant?”

He emphasized inside. The memory was still foggy, but that detail—her body collapsing across the table, the sharp report of the shot—felt burned into my brain.

“Yes,” I said. “She was killed at the table. Right in front of me.”

“Alexandra,” he said carefully, “no murder was reported at that location yesterday. Not of Ms. Honey, and not of the Japanese man either.”

My chest tightened.

“What? But—sir, I shot him. He chased me. I saw her die.”

“I’m not saying it didn’t happen,” he replied. “I’m saying it wasn’t reported. No police, no media. No signs it ever occurred.”

My thoughts scrambled, trying to grasp at memories that now felt slippery. Was it real? Did I hallucinate it? Was I drugged?

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I said quietly. “I swear on my life—it happened. She was murdered. He came after me. I shot him. I ran.”

Penrose didn’t argue.

“I’ll ask Thomas to investigate.”

“May I join him?”

“Yes,” he said. “But not as Ms. Hare.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have him contact you shortly. In the meantime… take care.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Click.

I let the phone fall into my lap and stared at the floor.

Something was very wrong.

I checked the mag of my pistol.

It held 15 rounds before. Now there were 14.

I checked again. Counted slowly. One by one.

Still 14.

I did shoot that guy, didn’t I?

Maybe he wore a vest. Maybe he got up and walked away after I bailed. That part I could almost accept. But Honey? I remembered her being dead. Vividly. Slumped across the table, unmoving. Still.

Except... had she really been shot?

Why didn’t he shoot me? Why all the chasing? What the hell happened in there?

Pain cracked behind my eyes like lightning. I grabbed my head, fingers pressed hard against my temples.

Then I saw the sketchbook on my desk.

It always calmed me—sketching, painting, tagging walls when no one watched. Letting the world twist through lines and shapes, distorted by imagination. Maybe it could do that again.

I sat down, grabbed a pencil, and started drawing through the pain.

Three people at a table.

Jess Hare, her meal barely touched. Ms. Honey, flamboyant as ever—plate empty, face frozen in fear, arm stretched toward the man in the perfect black suit.

The Yakuza enforcer.

Shiroi.

He held her wrist with one hand, smiling like he’d already won. But something was wrong with her. I started adding to the sketch—lines unraveling from her like threads being pulled loose, fibers of flesh and silk unraveling into empty space.

Then I erased parts of Shiroi—deliberate, careful strokes. He didn’t need detail. He needed light.

Purple. Something inhuman bleeding from inside him.

I set down the pencil. The eraser. Leaned back and stared at the page.

Outside the window, a dove perched on the sill, watching. Unbothered.

I tried to focus, to breathe, to think.

And for the first time since that night, it came back more clearly.

There was no gunshot.

He grabbed her—and she unraveled.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Literally.

Skin, bones, fabric, all unspooling into threads of impossible matter. My brain tried to fight it, to overwrite it. But the sketch made it real again. It anchored the truth.

Was I losing my mind? Or was this guy a monster in a suit?

A supervillain?

I remembered now—he’d called Honey a seer. He called me a mage. What the hell did that mean?

I looked at the drawing again. Something inside me reached out, silently desperate.

I gripped the paper hard and closed my eyes.

“Be my reminder,” I whispered. “Please. My memory. Don’t let me lose my mind. I beg of you.”

When I opened my eyes, I saw it.

A shimmer—rainbow-colored light curling around my fingers, flowing toward the sketch. Soft and slow, like ink in water. It sank into the page without burning it. Like it belonged there.

Imagination. Trauma. Madness.

Or something else.

Either way—it worked.

The memory stayed.

I folded the drawing with slow precision, carefully, like it was sacred, and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans.

--

I bailed on Uni again today—not a habit I liked forming, but some things couldn’t be shelved for later. Not this.

The disguise was subtle, but deliberate. A blonde wig cut into a neat bob, silver contact lenses softening my stare, and wide-rim glasses that dulled the edge of my face. I let a smattering of freckles rest across my nose—just enough to suggest innocence without leaning too hard into it.

The outfit was simple: loose black jeans, a beige sweater with a casual drape—something soft, approachable, with a hint of deliberate choice. Not my usual mask. This wasn’t Lex This wasn’t Jess.

This was Elle Erikson. Casual, observant, a ghost of someone who might have been a student or a personal assistant, blending in just enough to be forgettable—but with eyes too sharp to ignore if you paid close attention.

I stood sixty feet from the entrance of the Sleeping Bear, eyes on the street, my pulse keeping time with the passing cars. Then I spotted him—Thomas Torque—rolling by slowly in his car, scanning for a place to park.

Just minutes later, he walked past me.

Thomas was hard to miss. At least 6’3”, built like a powerlifter in a designer suit—somewhere between executive and enforcer. Bald head, but a sharp blonde beard trimmed close. Late thirties. Charismatic. Dangerous. The kind of man who could close a deal or crush a windpipe, depending on what Mr. Penrose needed that day.

“Hello, Thomas,” I said a second after he passed, just loud enough to cut through the street noise.

He jolted, spinning around. “Jesus.”

A slow grin crept across his face. “You’re way too good at this shit, Lex. I would've walked right by thinking you were someone else.”

“You did walk by me, you fool,” I said, teasing.

He laughed. He liked being surprised—especially by people he respected.

“Elle, right? Elle Jaison?”

“Close enough, big guy. Elle Erikson.”

“Alright then, Elle.” He gave me a nod, already shifting gears into business mode. “Let’s go in.”

We were here under the guise of location scouts for a film studio—Magnetar Pictures, a shell company cobbled together through one of Penrose’s contacts. The story? A slick new action flick looking for grounded, gritty spots to lend authenticity. It was good. Believable. Something with just enough sparkle to keep people helpful, but not curious.

Thomas had called ahead to confirm we’d be dropping by early—before the morning crowd trickled in. We wanted the place quiet, undisturbed. The Sleeping Bear opened its doors for us without issue. The manager, a plain-looking man in his early forties with deep bags under his eyes and the posture of someone who hadn’t slept well in weeks, greeted us with a tired smile.

Pablo, his name tag read. He exchanged the standard pleasantries with Thomas, who played the role of polished professional to a tee. Pablo, in turn, waved us in and retreated behind the bar to focus on something on his aging desktop monitor.

“How did it play out, Elle?” Thomas asked as we walked deeper into the restaurant. He motioned toward a wall like he was discussing set design, not a crime scene.

“We were sitting at that table, right in the corner,” I said, gesturing with the tilt of my chin—small, natural, like a person remembering a favorite spot. Thomas led us over.

There was already a new table in place. I ran my fingers along the edge. It was smooth, polished, and solid. Familiar. But definitely not the same one. The original had disintegrated, literally collapsed into splinters and debris. This one had none of that trauma embedded in its grain. I narrowed my eyes, a thought sparking.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pablo?” I called out toward the bar.

He rushed over like I’d shouted fire—alert, a little too eager.

“Yes? How can I help?”

“I was wondering… do you have any spare tables of this style? Just like this one?”

His expression tightened. Barely perceptible, but it was there. Thomas noticed it too—his posture shifted subtly. Alert mode.

“Yes,” Pablo answered after a pause. He was squirming in place. “Yes, we do… Why?”

“We’re thinking of staging a scene where a woman gets shot at this exact kind of table. The man sitting with her flips the table onto the shooter during his escape. It might get destroyed in the process, so… I wanted to know if replacements were available. We’d compensate you, of course.”

Pablo froze. For a second or two, his brain visibly stalled like an old engine trying to catch.

“You alright there, Pablo?” Thomas asked, laying a massive hand on the manager’s shoulder—casually. But depending on how hard he was pressing, it could’ve been a gesture of comfort... or a warning.

Pablo blinked himself back to reality. “Sorry. That just gave me a… what do you call it? Déjà vu.”

I tilted my head, acting intrigued. “Déjà vu?”

“Yeah. One of the tables was broken yesterday. I had the staff replace it as fast as possible, but…” He frowned, clearly straining. “I can’t remember how it got destroyed. Or what happened to the guests sitting there.”

“Oh? That’s… quite a coincidence,” I replied gently, nudging his thoughts.

“Right? It’s even weirder—it was this exact spot. Where we’re standing now.” He glanced around nervously.

I scanned the floor. No traces left—no fragments, no blood, no remains of Ms. Honey. Just polished tile and soft lighting.

“Damn,” I said under my breath. Then louder: “Any chance the fragments were saved? We’d love to show them to our special effects team.”

“They were tossed out last night,” Pablo said. “Everything—splinters, scraps, even a few broken dishes. It’s all in the garbage container out back. The collection truck hasn’t come yet, so if you’re up for some digging…”

“Don’t tempt me,” I replied with a wry smile.

Then Pablo’s expression shifted, like something just occurred to him. “Oh, word of caution. I called a renovation crew last night. They’ve been working since early morning.”

“Renovation?” Thomas echoed, the word sharp.

“Yeah. There was… uh, some kind of gas pipe leak or something. It blew a hole clean through the men’s restroom wall. Needed it fixed ASAP, so I’ve got a team back there now, patching things up.”

Thomas gave me a look: What the hell happened here yesterday, Lex?

I shrugged. If I had the answer, I’d have said it already.

“Sounds like you had a rough day,” he said diplomatically.

Pablo sighed. “Not the best, but we’ll manage. Happens in this business.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, turning toward the back. “Mind if we check out the alley and the trash bin?”

“Go ahead,” he said, already drifting back toward his screen.

Thomas and I exchanged a glance. We had more answers to dig for—and possibly literal garbage to sort through.

--

We found the right trash bag faster than expected. It was stuffed with splinters—jagged, broken wood that looked like it had been fed through a woodchipper. The workers nearby shot us curious glances and exchanged murmurs. One of them even laughed under his breath.

Thomas clocked it instantly. He straightened, all calm menace, and asked, “You boys got a problem that needs settling?”

The air changed.

They looked away. Tools clattered. Silence returned like a slammed door.

We crouched down again. Thomas pulled on a pair of disposable gloves from his coat pocket. “I carry a few,” he said with a smirk. “Never know when you're gonna be wrist-deep in shit.”

I tried one on, but they were way too big for me. He was on his own in the dumpster diving department.

About five minutes in, he froze.

“Got something,” he muttered, pulling it carefully from the pile. A thin, glimmering spool of thread—bloody red, but faintly iridescent. It shimmered oddly in the light.

“What the hell is this, Elle?”

I leaned in. My heart clenched.

“I’m pretty sure… that’s what’s left of Honey.”

Thomas held it out like it might bite him, arm fully extended, his face somewhere between disgust and disbelief.

“This? This thread? Wasn’t she shot? What the fuck? Did they… mince her and spin her into pasta?”

I exhaled slowly. “No. I saw it. That Yakuza guy—he touched her. Just touched her. She unraveled. Turned into that. No blood, no scream, just… threads.”

Thomas stared at the spool like it might explain itself if he glared hard enough.

“Jesus,” he said. “I’ve seen some things, Elle. Done worse. But this? This is fucked. Straight-up supernatural horror shit.”

“At least I know I’m not losing my mind,” I muttered. “I forgot. Somehow. But then I sketched it out and it all came back. Like the memory lived in the drawing.”

He gave me a look—half impressed, half disturbed.

“You know what? This is out of my league, Elle. Way out. What do we do now?”

I smirked faintly, tucking a stray hair under my wig.

“You up for a field trip?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

I met his eyes. “Wanna see Honey’s apartment?”

--

“How may I help you?” the concierge asked, his tone clipped but polite. Same man I spoke to last time—as Jess Hare. He didn’t recognize me now. The disguise held.

“Mrs. Holden asked us to come by her apartment,” Thomas said smoothly. “Fourth floor. Apartment nineteen.”

The concierge turned to his computer, tapping a few keys.

“I don’t see any appointment logged by Mrs. Holden,” he said, stressing the title with mild suspicion.

“This is a sensitive matter,” Thomas said, leaning in slightly. “A new development. We’re private investigators. She recently discovered someone close to her may be… unfaithful. She didn’t want to go through the usual channels.”

The concierge’s eyes flicked up, studying him. Then me. Then back to the screen.

“Oh,” he said after a pause. “That thing?”

“Yes. That one,” Thomas replied, as if we were all in on the same dirty little secret.

I stayed quiet. People can match voices far faster than faces. The less I said, the safer the whole operation stayed.

The concierge nodded slowly. “Alright. You can go ahead. I’ll log your arrival, though.”

“Of course,” Thomas said, already stepping past with practiced ease.

We moved to the elevator without another word, the polished lobby falling away behind us. As the doors slid closed, Thomas glanced sideways at me.

“Well,” Thomas muttered under his breath, “that went exactly the way you predicted.”

“It happens sometimes,” I said, trying to sound modest despite the edge of pride in my voice. “Despite my best efforts to be surprised.”

He chuckled softly.

The elevator ride was smooth and eerily silent. We reached the fourth floor in a matter of seconds—quick, clean, no hiccups. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort that came with elevators. Boxed in, no windows, no real exit if things went sideways. I hated being caged like that. The moment the doors slid open with a soft chime, I stepped out a little too quickly.

At least we were out. Time to see what secrets Ms. Honey’s apartment was still hiding.

Thomas picked the lock with practiced ease while I stood close, knocking on the door to distract the watchful eye of the building’s security camera. The lock gave in with a soft click, and he pushed the door open slowly, almost politely, as if Ms. Honey might still be alive and about to welcome us in.

No such luck.

The apartment greeted us with the stench of stale liquor, synthetic perfume, and something sweet rotting in the corner. I blinked, stunned. I hadn’t expected this—not from her. Every time we met, Honey had been the picture of poise and polish: elegant, composed, perfectly dressed. But this place? This place was a shrine to entropy.

Clothes lay draped over furniture, scattered like the aftermath of a glitter-storm tantrum. Loud prints, expensive fabrics, colors that looked like they’d been vomited up by a rainbow-worshipping god. Dishes with congealed leftovers competed for counter space with half-finished bottles of vodka, gin, and a suspiciously murky wine. Some containers weren’t even designed to hold liquid—flower vases, a boot, a teapot with no lid.

Thomas let out a low whistle. “Another garbage dive.”

He snapped on a pair of gloves. “What are we after, Lex?”

“Anything unusual,” I said, scanning the chaos. “That Yakuza guy called her a seer. Whatever that means. But I also want her client list. I need to know who hired me to steal that necklace.”

Thomas gave a nod. “Alright. I’ll handle anything with wires, buttons, or ink. You look for the weird shit.”

“Fine,” I said, already wading through the wreckage.

And there was definitely weird shit to be found.